


If only we'd stop trying to be happy

by Astarloa



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Humor, Bickering, Bleak House - Charles Dickens - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mood Swings, Mutual Pining, Sentient Squid, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 03:44:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19265236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astarloa/pseuds/Astarloa
Summary: Sometimes, Crowley goes too fast. Aziraphale holds him steady, slows him down.





	If only we'd stop trying to be happy

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place a few years before their meeting in St James’s Park.

The street was noisy - it was approaching dusk, and it seemed as though all of London was either heading home for the night or stepping out. Costermongers were still out in force, hawking everything from oysters to decaying books, caged birds, and broken pieces of tat whose purpose had long since been lost. Weary hooves clattered against the cobblestones, while children shrieked and darted between adult legs. The air was heavy with the smell of unwashed bodies and manure.

A group of workmen disembarked onto the pavement from an omnibus, their faces stained with sweat and soot. Crowley elbowed his way through them, habitual swagger slipping into something more dangerous. He brushed a hand against one of the men as he passed. A fight broke out, and within moments the blood was flowing. He ducked to avoid a meaty fist and kept moving. The grunts and groans faded behind him, forgotten by the time he reached the next corner.

He crossed the street to put some distance between himself and a churchyard, and continued on past squalid courts and laneways. 

There was a persistent itch beneath his skin, the sense of observing himself from the outside.

Lately, he’d found himself taking risks, each one a little more extreme than the last, driven by a jittery sense of restlessness. Wild and alive and self-destructive with it, adrenaline his illusory reward. He’d been a bit wobbly during the twelfth century, but chalked it up to the Crusades. The feeling had passed. Only to resurface, it seemed, with the advent of electricity, as though something inside him had detected its presence and reached out in return. 

My own personal design flaw, Crowley thought, and muttered a soft curse beneath his breath. As if he didn’t have quite enough to be getting on with.

He’d spent the previous few weeks alternatively pacing his rooms and meeting with some dodgy types down at St Katherine’s Docks, planning a heist of holy relics rumoured to be arriving from the Continent. For no reason, really, other than the thrill. And when even that ceased to be a source of excitement and simply was, Crowley had known he needed something to slow him down a little. 

Which is how he came to be in the East End on a brisk Tuesday evening, heading to an opium den. 

The trick of it, Crowley had discovered, was striking the right balance between a sense of calm and discorporation. Usually, it wouldn’t have been a problem; he’d simply have indulged, then sobered up again. Only sometimes he lost himself in the moment, forgot that his heart was supposed to keep beating. There’d been one time, where - well, it had been a slightly closer than even he was entirely comfortable with. He’d stayed away for a while after that.

However, needs must. 

From the corner of one eye, Crowley saw a well-appointed, hackney coach lurch to a halt alongside him. Someone called his name. Pretending not to hear, Crowley gazed fixedly ahead and picked up his pace.

“Crowley!” repeated the voice. 

He took a few more steps, then stopped. He caught the reflection of a face in the windowpane of a nearby shop; a mess of pale hair floated above a display of some sad looking whelks and grey slabs of pickled tongue. Fuck, Crowley thought, please not now. Not when I’m like this. His stomach simultaneously rose and sank, leaving him vaguely seasick. He swallowed and turned around, walking over to the coach.

“I thought that was you,” Aziraphale said. His eyes, Crowley noticed distantly, from behind his glasses, were a very clear shade of blue. It always surprised him. “It’s been an age,” Aziraphale was saying, a crease visible between his eyebrows. “I kept expecting you to pop up somewhere, but - “

“Oh, you know how it is,” Crowley said, quickly. “No rest for the wicked.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, going for casual. “Head office is on a bit of a recruitment drive at present. It’s all timesheets and performance targets. So many temptations, so little time.”

“Anything I might have, er, heard of?” Aziraphale asked, developing a sudden fascination with the state of his fingernails.

Crowley thought for a moment. “Dickens was tricky.”

“He’s one of yours?” Aziraphale looked up, annoyed. “But I’ve just acquired a rather nice edition of _Bleak House_.”

The corner of Crowley’s mouth lifted in a crooked half-smile. “Instant classic. Nothing like the smell of brimstone and spontaneous human combustion to liven things up.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Of course you’d think that.” He hesitated, looking shifty, then said with a rush, “Although the - the darker elements, while certainly deplorable, did help to set off - “

“Esther!” they exclaimed in unison.

Crowley gave an exaggerated shudder. “If you think she’s bad now, you should have seen the first draft. Gave your lot a run for their money.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and changed the subject. “I was thinking of an early supper. Did you perhaps want to - “ He cleared his throat and tried again. “Is there somewhere I could drop you off? On my way, I mean.”

“Can’t,” Crowley said. “Going to a club. Well, a pub. Sort of a pub.” His memory of the venue in question was hazy, but he seemed to recall some kind of alcohol-come-paint thinner being passed around in an unmarked jug at one point. Close enough.

“That sounds mysterious.”

Crowley shrugged, then heard himself saying, “Come with me.” In a history littered with reckless and terrible ideas, it was, Crowley knew, a recklessly terrible idea. He shifted uncomfortably, opened his mouth to say, ‘I really must be going now, so lovely to see you’ in his most ironic manner, then closed it again. His breath speeded up, pulse fluttering in his ears.

Aziraphale watched him impassively and said, “Alright.”

Before Crowley could protest, Aziraphale climbed nimbly out of the coach and sent it on its way with a firm wrap of his knuckles. “Well,” he said, “here we are, then.” He straightened his cravat and looked around with interest. “And where are we exactly?”

“Spitalfields,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale’s expression grew pinched. “Ah.” 

Crowley rubbed the back of his neck. His eyes darted to Aziraphale and away again. 

“Very atmospheric,” said Aziraphale, wrinkling his nose. He gave Crowley an enquiring look. “So, which way are we headed?” There was a tone to his voice Crowley had learnt to recognise, something that toed a fine line between determined and sheer bloody-mindedness. In his quieter moments, he wondered just how much of a problem it caused for Aziraphale in Heaven. 

Crowley started walking. “Come on then, if you’re coming,” he called over one shoulder, uncertain if he wanted Aziraphale to follow or not. 

Night was falling. The streets were emptier now, raucous energy fading. They passed a small team of lamplighters, a father and son from the look of it, ladder stretched out between them. Pockets of gasping, greenish light appeared in their wake.

“It always reminds me of that moon,” Aziraphale said, turning to Crowley. “What’s it called - oh, you know the one. Near Jupiter. With all those underground oceans and the sentient squid-things.”

“Europa?”

“That’s it!”

Crowley took a sharp left, leading them along a rubbish-strewn laneway and up a rickety flight of stairs. The wood creaked and shifted beneath their feet, threatening to collapse at any moment.

“Never been to Europa myself,” Crowley said, picking the conversation up again. They each grabbed ahold of the railing, waiting for the worst of the swaying to subside. Crowley made a face. “Not really a fan of squid. All that squirming about, very undignified.“

“Unlike, say, snakes. For example.”

“Completely different thing,” Crowley said, firmly.

“Of course,” Aziraphale agreed, nodding. His eyes widened, a picture of innocence. “Obviously.”

They passed through an alehouse, down another set of stairs, and into a courtyard dominated by a crumbling arch. Chalked graffiti stained the stone. Aziraphale made the mistake of reading one of the obscene messages aloud, then all but expired on the spot from embarrassment. A series of backstreets and twisting passages followed, one of which, it appeared, was currently in use as someone’s sitting room. The elderly woman squashed into a chair against the wall seemed surprised to see them, in any event.

“Good evening,” Aziraphale said, inching past. He gave her an unconvincing smile, the kind used when presented with gifts from amateur knitting enthusiasts. “Um, delightful place you have here. Delightful. Very...compact.”

They emerged into a deserted backstreet so narrow it was little more than an alley. A gas lamp spluttered fitfully atop a pile of crates, making their shadows dance.

Aziraphale heaved a noisy sigh. A frivolous miracle later, he set about wiping the dirt from his face with an oversized, white handkerchief. “Where did you say we were going again?”

“That way,” Crowley replied, gesturing at nothing in particular. 

“What way?” Aziraphale demanded. “I don’t believe you have the least idea of where we are. We Have Become Lost. Like the - “

“Don’t,” Crowley warned. “Don’t you dare. Every time this happens, you start blithering on about the bloody - “

“Israelites!” Aziraphale said, triumphantly. He looked around. “With slightly less sand and manna. Although, we do appear to have been blessed with the body of a dead cat.”

“I know exactly where we are,” Crowley snapped, ignoring the cat bit. For once, he was being truthful. He could feel the pull of their destination a few streets over, had done all night; oily tendrils of vice and despair writhing outwards. The trouble was he kept bottling it and leading them around in circles. 

“I’m not going a single step further until you explain yourself,” Aziraphale announced suddenly, drawing himself up to a not terribly impressive height. He looked down, shook one foot free of a wilted cabbage leaf that had attached itself by way of decoration, and gave his heels a neat tap together. “Not a single step.”

“Oh, for G-g-g- “ Crowley broke off with a shudder and settled for rolling his eyes. He was tempted to pluck one out and launch it straight at Aziraphale’s head, temporary blindness be damned. And wasn’t that a kicker, the demon playing himself. 

_If thy right eye should offend thee..._

His hands twitched in anticipation, tendons curling skin and bone into fists. Oh yes, Crowley thought, the idea scrabbling inside him, his traitorous body liked that. It liked that idea a whole lot. His lungs fell out of sync, stuttered to a ragged stop as he concentrated on straightening his fingers one by one.

“Crowley? Is everything all right? You look - you look a trifle - “ Aziraphale’s voice drifted away into worried silence.

Crowley took a deliberate breath and ran a hand through his hair, teasing fate. He wasn’t convinced short curls were quite his thing. Perhaps another change was in order, something with side whiskers this time. The soft, romantic look was fine for some - just take Aziraphale - but whatever else Crowley might have been on his way to becoming, he knew it wasn’t that.

“Crowley?”

“Never better,” Crowley lied, the words tasting of ash against his tongue. He slouched against the filthy brick wall, all brittle insouciance, and stared at Aziraphale from behind his glasses. “Explain myself? Better make yourself nice and comfortable, ‘cause we’ll be here for a while. A century at least, give or take. I’m terribly complicated, me.”

Aziraphale gave a most un-angelic snort. “Don’t flatter yourself. I rather think I have the measure of you by now.”

“Really?” drawled Crowley. “Do tell.” He watched emotions chase themselves across Aziraphale’s face, trying to pin them down. Fear, he got that one. A demon’s stock in trade, as it were. Regret? No, not quite. It was tangled with something wistful and more intense, in another life he might have called it longing. “What if I’m ineffable?”

“Ineffable?” Aziraphale said, scandalised. “You? Don’t be ridiculous. God is ineffable. It’s what makes God...well, God.”

“I thought that was the Great Plan.”

“It was. I mean is. _Is_ the Great Plan,” Aziraphale said, growing flustered. “And since God made the Great Plan, and the Great Plan is ineffable - “

“God made me once,” said Crowley, quietly. He cleared his throat. “In fairness, the veneer of ineffability has probably worn a tad thin since then. Is that even a word? In-eff-ability. Sounds strange when you say it like that.”

“Really, Crowley. Please be serious.” Aziraphale gave him a pained look. “I insist you tell me where we’re going. I mean, the East End? Do you have any idea what kind of vile fiends could be lurking around the corner?”

Crowley set free his second-most devilish grin and wriggled his eyebrows. Wonderful things, eyebrows. “Vile fiends, eh?”

Aziraphale raised his chin. “And cutpurses. Or brigands!”

“Brigands? You think cutlass wielding brigands are roaming around the backstreets of London?” Crowley folded his arms, the corporeal definition of unimpressed. “Oh, of course. Silly me. No doubt they’ve been lured in by all those unguarded, mountain passes that have sprung up lately in Westminster!”

“One hears stories,” said Aziraphale, stiffly.

“From who? Escapees from Bedlam? They’ll be hauling you off next if you’re not careful.”

Aziraphale bridled. “I’m sure you’re intimately acquainted with any number of knife wielding monsters, are personally responsible for them in fact, but I - “

“Oy!” said Crowley, cutting him off. He pushed away from the wall and stalked forwards, furious with himself for feeling hurt and aggressive with it. Six thousand years and that’s what - but no matter. None of it fucking mattered, except this was Aziraphale and somehow it did. “I’ve told you,” he said, leaning in close, “they do it without any prompting from me.” 

_Liar,_ whispered a small voice in his head, _what about those men on the street? That was all you._

“Sometimes, I - sometimes, but not the - not ones like that,” Crowley said, no longer certain if he was trying to convince Aziraphale or himself. “Not the ones like that.” He pressed his lips together to stop them from trembling. 

Aziraphale stood utterly still, his gaze steady. “Quite right, my dear. Indeed. I didn’t mean - well.” He reached out, ignoring Crowley’s flinch, and removed his glasses. Aziraphale studied them for a moment, before tucking them into Crowley’s front pocket with a gentle pat. “There, that’s much better. There’s no one here, after all. Just, ah...me.”

Crowley blinked, then looked away with an awkward turn of his head.

A dull sort of panic welled up inside him. He wanted to speed through the streets until his thoughts disappeared beneath the snap of broken wheels; flee towards the next century, change his name and not look back. But he couldn’t leave, be anywhere else than right here, because - 

His eyes met Aziraphale’s. 

“If you’re sssso concerned about the source of humanity’s woes, you may want to take a look in the mirror,” he hissed. The words uncoiled and struck before he could stop them, flashing shiny and cruel. “I wasn’t the one who introduced them to the joys of sharp, pointy things. Flaming ssssword, remember?”

“What do you mean? I - Oh.” Aziraphale sounded stricken. “You mean it’s my fault that - “

“Nah,” Crowley said. He sniffed and took a few quick steps back, tugging on the black lace that spilled past his wrists. He pulled out his glasses and slid them on again. “One of ours. Ligur. Don’t think you’ve met. Wouldn’t recommend it. Ghastly fellow. Doesn’t clean his teeth.”

A long silence followed.

“The name does ring a bell, now you mention it,” said Aziraphale, finally. He smiled, but there was something sad around his eyes. “Tries to disguise the smell of sulphur with that awful lavender water, if I remember rightly. I don’t know why he bothers, because there’s also some kind of amphibian stuck to his, er - “ Aziraphale gestured to his own forehead.

Crowley’s mouth twitched, despite himself. “It’s a Giant Three-Toed Salamander. He’s inordinately proud of it. Species is extinct now, of course.” 

“A salamander!” Aziraphale exclaimed, in mock appreciation. He clasped his hands together. “With toes, even. That’s certainly unique. It’s not just anyone who can carry off a salamander, you know.”

They stared at each other, then started laughing. 

Echoes of fragile joy spun and collided, trapped between walls hunched together against the night. It wasn’t actually that funny, Crowley knew, just a recycled witticism they’d first shared several centuries back, but he found that he didn’t care. 

“C’mon,” Crowley sighed, when the laughter had died down. He headed in the direction of what he hoped was the road, shortening his stride when Aziraphale fell into step beside him. “I’ll see you home.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Aziraphale sighed, with obvious relief. “I have a rather good bottle of red that’s simply begging to be uncorked.” He paused for effect. “From the Chateau Margaux, no less! You must try it and tell me what you think.”

Crowley listened as Aziraphale prattled on, interjecting with occasional, acerbic remarks. 

Oddly, he found that he felt much better. More settled than he had in years.

It wasn’t that Aziraphale was especially clever, Crowley decided - his insistence on the self-refuting logic of God’s ineffability was a case in point. His stories were entertaining, but typically ended somewhere between rambling and incomprehensible. His quips could be amusing, true, but were so often followed by righteous disapproval that the two almost cancelled each other out. And yet -

And yet.

His eyes narrowed as the lamps of Wentworth Street swam into view, throwing fractured halos against the fog.

“You never did tell me where we were going,” Aziraphale said. “Nothing...dangerous, I hope.”

“You worry too much, angel. A little danger never hurt anyone.” Crowley added an extra swagger to his stride, summoning a smirk just the wrong side of wicked. “Much.”

“Hmmm,” Aziraphale said, not sounding at all convinced. His cheeks turned pink. “Perhaps next time we could take a turn around St James’s Park and feed the ducks. Have a picnic with some nice little cakes. My treat.” He gave Crowley a quick, sideways glance and hurried ahead, stepping out of the laneway and into the street.

Crowley hung back for a moment, lingering in the shadows. “All right,” he said, beneath his breath. “It’s a date.”


End file.
